


Starshine On The Fields of Long-Ago

by oratorio



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oratorio/pseuds/oratorio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris has no memory of his life before he became the lyrium warrior and bodyguard of his master, Magister Danarius.  No memory of the deep love he had found with a fellow slave, the elven girl Antonina.  He doesn't even remember her face.</p><p>But she has never forgotten him, and in all the years that pass all she can think about is finding him again one day.</p><p>This is a story of convergence, the meeting of lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_But now my heart is heavy-laden. I sit_  
 _Burning my dreams away beside the fire:_  
 _For death has made me wise and bitter and strong;_  
 _And I am rich in all that I have lost._  
 _O starshine on the fields of long-ago,_  
 _Bring me the darkness and the nightingale;_  
 _Dim wealds of vanished summer, peace of home,_  
 _And silence; and the faces of my friends._

 

_Siegfried Sassoon, “Memory”_

 

* * *

 

The carriage rolls slowly over roughly paved track lined with flags to indicate that there is a celebration today.  The culmination of weeks of fighting, of competing for favour.  The contests have been brutal, the polished floor of the Proving Grounds often running scarlet with the blood of humans and elves alike.

She has watched them all with her heart in her mouth, sitting silently behind her powerful master.  He knows she loves the slave boy, knows the pain she feels in her chest every time an opponent lands a blow.  This is just another way for him to torture her.

Yet each time he has triumphed, her love.  Survived another day, another battle.  Standing bloodied and bruised in the arena, green eyes seeking her out amid the crowds cheering for their temporary hero.  Pretending he is looking at his master, bowing before him, when she knows his intense gaze is for her alone.

Twelve years she has known him, since he was a boy of seven and she a year older, bossing him around with the superiority of age.  They had played together in the dirt, inventing games with their imaginations, normal childhood possessions being far out of reach of the families of slaves.

She had watched as he grew from a skinny boy to a lanky youth, taking on duties working the land.  She couldn’t remember the first time she had noticed the muscle and strength he had developed, the hard planes of his chest dripping with sweat in the sun, dark hair swept from his brow as he tilled the fields.  She wasn’t sure exactly when she had realised she was in love with him.  But she could remember the day she first kissed him, as if it were just yesterday.

It had been summer, one of the hottest days of the year, and he had been on the farm since dawn.  Had toiled for hours in the searing heat, no respite for a slave.  It had been near dusk when he had finally collapsed, his legs no longer able to hold his weight, his skin sore and starting to blister.  He had been carried none too gently back to the hovel he shared with his mother and sister, delirious and moaning.

She was training to be a herbalist then, creating potions from rare flowers to feed the strength of the Magisters.  It was forbidden for any other to touch these exotic mixtures, so powerful and valuable were they.  She was an obedient slave, fear and expectation keeping her compliant, but the sight of him being hauled along the street that evening was enough to push her into illicit action.

“Leto, it’s me.  You must drink this, please.”

He had been semi-conscious, slipping in and out of the Fade, curled up in the gloom of the tiny hut.  His eyes, when they cracked open, were unfocused and dark, his whole body shivering.  She managed to press the tiny vial to his cracked, dry lips and tilted it, watching the crimson liquid disappear into his mouth, his throat working to swallow it.

She had held her breath, hoping.  Praying to the Maker.

The potions were strong, effective, and this one was no different.  In a matter of minutes his temperature was cooling, the angry red flush that had suffused his skin fading to his normal bronze tones.  His eyelids fluttered, breath flowing more evenly.  Relief washed over her with such force that she fell to her knees beside him.

“Leto, can you hear me?”

He turned his head to her, opened his eyes.  Exhausted, no doubt, but he was alert, could _see_ her.  She sighed and rested her cheek against his shoulder.

“You were so ill, I thought…”

“Thank you.”  She felt his hand push through her hair, fingers tickling against the soft skin on the back of her neck.  “But the potion… you shouldn’t have…”

“I would not have anything happen to you, Leto.”

“But if Danarius found out… I don’t know what he would do to you.”

“Nothing he could do would be worse than losing you.”

They had gazed at each other for long moments then, conscious of the tension suddenly between them.  She had felt every beat of her heart against her thin tunic, her throat dry and her hands trembling.  Then she had kissed him.

Nervous at first, her lips soft on his, hesitant and shy.  His eyes had widened and his lips had parted, and then they were kissing with a passion borne of desperation, of the fear of loss, the cruelty of their wretched oppression.  Slaves were not supposed to _feel,_ to _care.  But I am not a statue, stone hearted and blank.  I am a woman, and I love this man._

They had courted in secrecy, in the dark of night when most were abed.  Words whispered in her ear, words of love, of seduction.  They had both been virgins, clumsy and eager, bodies coming together inexpertly, erratic thrusts and soft moans.  He had filled her in a way she had never imagined, velvet soft and iron hard, the pulsing heat of him sending a feverish thrill running through her veins.  The way he looked above her in the shadows, too-long hair falling into his eyes, the intense look on his face as he struggled to keep control, the sound of her name on his lips as he came for the first time inside her.

_Antonina._

She loved him, and he loved her.

Today he would be fighting once more in the great green prism that is the Proving Grounds, the final battle of the tournament for the grand prize of a boon of the victor’s choosing.  The winner would also have the honour of being named the most treasured possession of the man she had served as a body slave ever since he had discovered the missing potion in his inventory, not three weeks after she and Leto had first lain together.

 _Where is it?_ he had hissed.  _You cannot be trusted.  You will need a position where I can… watch you more closely, little one._

And so her life had changed.

She schooled her face into careful blankness as the carriage rolled up to the arena, and stepped down behind her master, arranging his cloak _just so._


	2. Chapter 2

She had never seen so many people all in one place.  The bench seats around the Proving Grounds were packed full, humans and elves alike jostling for position, stretching to wave their flags aloft in support of their chosen fighter.  Green for Leto, to match his luminous eyes.  For his opponent, the exact shade of golden yellow as his hair.

Leto stood proud and unwavering in the centre of the arena, calm gaze fixed on Danarius.  His adversary, a tightly muscled dual-wielding rogue, gave an arrogant sneer to the crowd as his head switched from side to side, taking in the smells, the sounds and the astonishing sight of thousands of people all congregated here just for them, to watch them wound and stab, waiting eagerly for one of them to collapse to the floor, lifeblood draining in red rivers, eyes dimming.  Bets were being taken by shouting hawkers, and she noted that there were more people holding yellow slips than green.  The rogue had been formidable in his previous bouts, barely a drop of his own blood spilled.

She felt herself retch, swallowing desperately to tamp down the fear and horror churning inside her, causing her stomach to twist and spasm.  Her Leto, never violent, always gentle.  She recalled his calloused hands tender against her skin, the sheer adoration in his eyes when he looked at her.  A shudder ran through her at the painful dissonance of the sight of him in full armour, wielding a sword as long as he was tall.

The rogue – Jamil, his name was – looked as if he was carved from a different mould entirely.  His pale blue eyes were fierce and sparking with aggression, bare arms sinuous and lined with old scars.  He held himself like a seasoned fighter, taut and dangerous as a tiger cornering its prey.

Her eyes closed against the sudden threat of tears, but even closing herself off from the tableau before her provided no respite.  Pictures ran through her mind, Leto impaled on sharp silver daggers, writhing in agony, her name bubbling through the blood on his lips as he died. 

“You are not watching, my little sparrow?”

His voice slithered through her thoughts, shattering the hellish vision in her mind but returning her abruptly to the equally terrifying reality of the arena.  She steeled herself and opened her eyes.  “Apologies, master.  A small piece of grit in my eye.”

She knew from his smile that he did not believe her, that he understood all too well what this was doing to her.

The Caller was announcing the fighters now, each of them bowing in turn to Danarius, to the cheering crowds.  Excitement began to reach fever pitch, young girls shouting out the names of the fighters to try to gain their attention while older members of the crowd impatiently bellowed for the bout to begin.

 

  
“Leto!  I love you!”

His mother stood at the side of the arena, face blotchy and puffy, eyes reddened from crying.  Her shrill voice rose above the hubbub, sheer desperation and terror bearing her words to him.  He looked up, his face briefly appearing to collapse inwards, and then he noticeably steeled himself, shoulders back, posture tightening.

This is all for his family, she knew: his mother and Varania, so that they can be free to live their lives away from the shadow of this evil man.  Typical Leto, to sacrifice his own life for those he cared about.  She found herself wishing he had just been that little bit more selfish… but then, he wouldn’t be the man he was, the man she loved.

They faced each other across the arena now.  Leto stood passive and still, giving nothing away of his emotions.  Jamil frantically worked himself into a visible rage, nostrils flared and lips pulled back into a snarl, slashing at the air with his wickedly-sharp daggers.  The crowd cheered louder, loving the showmanship.

How could anyone wring enjoyment out of such a spectacle? The sight of blood abhors her, the thought of another's pain brings her nearly to tears. Each man, each _boy_ who has laid down their life before these people was someone's son, had people who loved them. _Yet we celebrate their deaths as entertainment_. What a world this was.

Perhaps death isn't the worst thing, she thought. Perhaps it's worse to be left behind, to have to go on living in this desolation, breath by breath, without those who made it worthwhile.

She remembered the shock of seeing Leto fight for the first time. She'd no idea where he had learned his skill with the blade, how he had honed himself to be as strong as a bull and as graceful as a dancer.  He moved like poetry, pure and achingly beautiful; he struck like the deadliest of snakes, lethal and without hesitation.

He will need all of that grace today, all of that dangerous energy.

 

 _“Na via lerno victoria.”_ Only the living know victory.

The red scarf which signified the beginning of the fight dropped to the floor, and the men began to circle, predators hunting only each other.  A preternatural hush dropped over the crowd, a collective holding of breath as they waited in anticipation of the first strike.

Jamil lunged first, blades cutting through the air and glittering in the sunlight.  As surefooted as a ballerina he pranced around his foe, twisting and piercing his armour with a flourish of wrists.  Leto coiled his muscular form away from the blow, the dagger grazing his hip, scoring a deep slash in the leather of his armour, blood welling to the opening.  She gasped, tears springing to her eyes once more.

The cut was not deep.  Leto limped but steadied himself and met Jamil’s next flurry with a sweeping blow of his own.  The rogue shook, stunned by the strength of the blocking move, briefly sent to his knees in the ring.  A momentary weakness - and Leto was upon him, swinging that ridiculous sword with the power and elegance of an acrobat.  Jamil rolled away and sprang back to his feet with feline agility, daggers twitching in his hands.

Leto found himself briefly unbalanced by the effort of his blows and the price is high.  The rogue shimmied in to one side, sinking a single silver blade deeply into his stomach with a yell of triumph.  The dagger came out coated in crimson, dripping slowly on to the floor of the arena, creating pretty patterns on the marble.

And yet her love did not call out in pain, did not even acknowledge that he was wounded.  His arms snapped around with a sudden swiftness, sword smashing against his rival in a solid sweep.  A deep cut opened up on the rogue’s shoulder, one dagger dropping to the floor with a clatter as his arm dangled uselessly.

For the first time, fear was in the other man’s eyes.  Blood puddled at their feet as they regarded each other, seeking a weakness, looking for the next opportunity to attack.  Leto’s gut and thighs shone with a coating of  red, the stain seeping across the leather of his breeches.  The rogue fared no better, scarlet trails running from his useless fingers and cascading in steady, glutinous drops to the ground.

The crowd were alight again, shouting out with enthusiasm and anticipation.  They knew that their expected champion had begun to struggle, grimacing in pain from his damaged arm and desperately trying to balance himself enough to land a blow with his one remaining weapon.

She watched as Leto’s eyes narrowed, a look in them which she had never thought to see – feral, wild and brutal.  He almost pirouetted towards his enemy, feet shifting across the slippery ground as if he weighed nothing at all, the sword in his hands flowing through the air in a deadly rush.

Jamil flinched, ducking the blow, his single dagger slashing wildly at Leto’s arms as he struck.  He succeeded in drawing a laceration along the muscle of Leto’s stronger right arm, but the response was instantaneous.  Leto kicked out at the rogue, who had drawn close - too close - to his body.  His unshod foot connected with Jamil’s wrist and the remaining dagger slid out of his grasp.

He lay at the mercy of the former farm boy, unarmed and wounded.  He slipped in the gore and fell to the hard ground, breath coming in hard pants, heavy with loss.

Leto towered over him, blade at his throat.  He knew it was over, that he was triumphant, but he took no pleasure in the victory.  The final blow was clinical, mechanical; accompanied only by a secret exchange of glances with his vanquished foe and the silent words of apology on his lips.

He remained with his head bowed over the body of the rogue for long seconds before he became aware of the applause ringing around the stadium, the wild cheering of the crowds, the presence of his master rising from his seat to address his new favourite.

“Leto, my little wolf, may I be the first to extend my congratulations on a duel well fought.”

He knelt before Danarius, fighting nausea as the smell of the battle hit him, the metallic tang of the blood, the sourness of death, the unmistakeable scent of his opponent’s soiling of his breeches at the final moments of his life.

“Now, as the rules have allowed, I grant you one boon.  Choose wisely.”

Leto turned his gaze upon his master, proud and strong despite the agony coursing through his abdomen, the blood still seeping from his wounds.

“I wish for freedom for my family.  My mother and my sister.  Let them be loosened from their bindings that they can find a life for themselves anew, slaves no longer.”

“As you request, so it is granted.  Now, my little wolf, it is time for you to also begin anew.  Show him to his new quarters and attend to his injuries!”

Guards appeared at his side and took his arms, hoisting him between them as he slowly let himself fall into unconsciousness, a smile on his face.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning in this chapter for non-con/abuse. I'm sorry if it upsets anyone. It upset me to write it.

She had expected to see him at her master’s estate, perhaps by his side as a bodyguard or in his quarters as a manservant, both considered to be privileged positions among slaves.  She was nervous about seeing him again, the pull of her heart when she thought of his face warring with the fear of how he would see her now, whether he would treat her with disgust once he found out that she was warming their master’s bed.

_(This is duty, not love.  I love only you.)_

Yet days passed with no sign of him, days which turned into weeks.  Fear began to take her over – she would wake with tears on her cheeks from dreams of him, thrashing with pain, infection coursing through his body from the injuries he had received in the arena, slowly fading and dying in front of her eyes.

She had risked her life one evening to run from the palace into the slums, heading for his old home.  Needing to ask where he was, if he was safe.  She found only a stranger, a new family in the familiar hut, no sign of Leto’s mother or sister.  The new occupant had no idea where they had gone, only that they had been driven out and were no longer welcome in the shanty town of slaves.  She felt sick.  Was this what freedom entailed?  Was this what he had fought for, what he had wanted so badly?

Each day she performed her duties, only half aware of her surroundings.  Her thoughts drifted, creating images of him: their childhood together, their kisses and the way he held her against him as if the world could never hurt them.  Would she ever see him again, or would her memories have to sustain her?  The fear and doubt in her mind grew with the passing of hours.

Then one evening he was there, standing at Danarius’ side.

He was dressed in expensive leather, tight against his skin, but this was not what drew her eye.  His hair – it was _white_. Pure white, like new-fallen snow on the mountains.  And – she swallowed a cry – there were marks all over his skin, flowing silver lines branded into his face, his neck, his arms… yes, right down to his toes, bare below his breeches.

_What have you done to him?_

Worse than the change in his appearance was the expression on his face.  Or rather, she thought, the lack of expression.  She had always thought she would never tire of looking at Leto’s face, the animation in his features, the way his lips would so readily quirk into a smile and his eyes sparkle with joy.  Looking at him now, her brow furrowed as she saw how flat and empty his eyes were, how his laughing mouth turned down at the corners in a bitter grimace.

He didn’t even look her way.

“My little sparrow, draw me a bath.  I am in need of relaxation,”  Danarius leered at her, a knowing glint in his eye.  He was enjoying her shock, her confusion at the lack of reaction from the man she had once hoped to bond with forever.  That seemed like another life now, so long ago.

“Yes, master.”  She complied as always, hurrying to the sunken marble tub to fill it with hot water.  She couldn’t stop herself from firing a quick glance towards Leto as she passed him.  Her heart twisted in her chest as he gazed passively back, not even a silent acknowledgement of what they once were to each other.

She knew this routine.  The bath filled rapidly with bubbles and the smell of lilacs permeated the room.  How she hated that smell.  Kneeling at Danarius’ feet she spoke softly, “Your bath is ready, master.”

As always, he beckoned her to her feet with one long, bony finger.  She rose mechanically and began to unbuckle his robes. Her hands trembled as she slid the expensive fabrics from his shoulders and ran her hands along his exposed grey-furred chest in just the way he liked.  Her face flushed with mortification as she heard Leto shift his feet beside them.  Now he knows, she thought, what she has become.  She was so full of shame that she could taste it, sour and bitter in her throat.

Her hands pushed into the magister’s breeches, sliding the linens down his legs until he stood before her fully unclothed, his erection standing hard and proud from his body.  It seemed that her discomfort had only heightened his arousal.  He grinned down at her and took her hand, pulling her behind him as he headed for the foaming water.  Obedient slave that she was, she followed without a murmur.

Her knees ached as she knelt beside the tub, hands submerged in the water, massaging her master to inevitable climax. All at once, she felt the barriers she had carefully built to shield her from the violations visited upon her collapse, and for the first time she felt truly soiled, dead inside.  She knew that the man she would always love was standing behind her, his eyes boring into her back.  She knew that Danarius intended to have Leto watch him take his pleasure in her body.  She knew that she would be ravaged, over and over again, through all the hours of this night; and that she would have to watch her beautiful Leto - himself despoiled - gaze upon the sight with those newly soulless eyes.

She had never cried in front of Danarius before, and he smiled at the sight of the tears rolling silently down her cheeks as he came with a roar in the warmth of the bathwater.


	4. Chapter 4

“Anso did not lie… exactly.”

The elf stood proud among the bodies of the hunters, blood dripping from his fingers and from the greatsword on his back.  He considered the quartet before him, shifting unsteadily amid the grime of the alienage, three human women and one beardless dwarf.  They appeared shocked and disturbed by the sudden death of the bandit leader, despite the fact that they themselves were covered in gore and had left a trail of bodies from the hovel they had emerged from to the steps of the alienage itself.  Still, he supposed, it wasn’t every day you saw someone tear out a man’s still-beating heart using only his hands.

“If he didn’t lie, then who are you?”  The dark haired woman nearest to him stood with her hands on her hips and her chin raised, challenging him to explain himself.  _Not afraid of a branded, dangerous elf, then._

Fenris regarded her steadily.  She was clearly in charge of the small group, confident and authoritative in her demeanour.  She was dressed in tight leather armour, and wielded old but sharp daggers.  _A rogue, then_.  At her right side was a red-haired warrior, sturdy and hard-faced.  _She doesn’t trust me,_ Fenris thought.  He could hardly blame her _._ The dwarf was also watching him carefully, but with a wry grin, as if he was storing away all the details of this encounter to be shared at a later time.  Behind them all, a pretty young brunette stood, gazing shyly at the floor.  She appeared out of place, the least likely mercenary Fenris could think of.

He took a deep breath and decided to be honest.  “My name is Fenris.  These men were bounty hunters, sent by my former master in Tevinter to recapture me.  I apologise that I couldn’t have explained beforehand, but in my position it’s hard to know who to trust.  They have been after me now for a number of years.”

 “You were a slave, then?”

Fenris nodded.  “A slave, a bodyguard.  Yes.”

The dwarf raised an eyebrow, curious. “It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to, just to recapture an escaped slave.”

“Indeed it may, but it isn’t really me that he is after as much as my skin.  I am an investment to him, not just a simple slave.”  He chuckled bitterly.

The rogue tilted her head, and he felt her gaze travel up and down his body.  She frowned.  “I assume that has something to do with those markings?”

Fenris stretched out an arm, traced a finger along the silvery lines etched into his tanned flesh.

“It has.  I know I must look strange to you.  The markings are lyrium, branded into my skin by Danarius, my master.  It’s the lyrium which allows me to… phase into others, as you have just observed.”

“Hmm.  Quite a weapon.  I’m starting to see why you are so valuable to him.”

“I will not let him have me!”  Fenris spat angrily, his markings glowing blue from his toes to the tips of his ears.  He was aware of the redhead unsheathing her sword and struggled to regain control.

The rogue’s eyes widened and she took a step back.  “Hey, calm down, I was only saying I understood.  Had I known that these people were working for a slaver, I’d have happily murdered them all for free.”

Fenris swallowed hard and his skin returned to its normal bronze hue.  “Hmm.  We will see.  Not many people help others for no personal gain, at least not in these parts.  However, if you are serious, I would gladly accept your help in finding Danarius.  I will never be truly free while he still pursues me.”

“In that case, Marian Hawke at your service,”  she sketched a bow.  “This is my sister Bethany,” – the quiet brunette smiled timidly – “and these two are Aveline and Varric.  So, where do we start?”

 

* * *

 

Danarius’ trail had led them to a dilapidated mansion in Hightown, but to Fenris’ desperate disappointment he was no longer there.  The woman – Hawke – had helped him to despatch the demons left behind before heading back to her own home with a promise to help him should he ever track down Danarius, providing he returned the favour if needed.  She had been an interesting woman – tough and confrontational – and he was happy to agree to her terms.

He sat among the wreckage of the old mansion, stair rails crumbling and damp spots on the tiles from the broken-down roof.  Aside from Danarius using it as a brief hideout, it seemed that nobody had lived there for a long time.  Well, that would take care of where he should go next, never having had anywhere to call his own.  It would be a roof over his head, even if it was full of holes.  And he had found a store of Aggregio in the cellars, the wine his master used to drink at gatherings.  He hated that it reminded him of Danarius, but at the same time he felt satisfaction that something once belonging to his master was now in his hands.  Draining the last drops of a bottle he flung it against the wall, the broken glass adding to the general air of disrepair about the place.

Kirkwall.  His lip curled as he thought about the city.  It was a dirty, smelly place full of cutpurses and mercenaries.  Poverty was rife and the entire place was overcrowded, orphaned children fending for themselves amid the rats and slime of Darktown.  He had come here because of the way magic was controlled – a far cry from the power and dominance it held in Tevinter – but it seemed that nowhere was perfect, and he had found himself alone amid the bustle and noise of the city streets.  Aside from Anso, the ragtag quartet he had dealt with this evening comprised about the only real interaction he had had with other people for months.  He hadn’t realised how much he had missed it.

It seemed that Hawke and her friends might be just the people he was looking for, to help him in his quest to finish off Danarius and finally claim his freedom.  She had seemed earnest when speaking about slavers, and her ability in combat could be in no doubt after he had seen the string of corpses littering Lowtown earlier that evening.  It might be nice, he thought, to actually get to know someone again, to spend time in the company of others.  After what had happened the last time, with the Fog Warriors, he had been wary of opening up to anyone.  Now, though, he felt the chains of his slavery were weak enough that he no longer imagined himself a danger to anyone who wished him no harm.  It might just be time to make a place for himself in this town.


End file.
